Remembrance - Ave Atque Vale
by Darkflame's Pyre
Summary: 'If we are born again, I will meet you in another life, and if there is a river, you will wait on the shores for me to come to you, so that we can cross together.' More words, though hoarse, were spoken aloud now, said once before. He thought they were fitting. He recalled that day with crystal clarity; his last as a mortal man.


**A/N: To those who have follow****ed ****and read me before, hello again; to those who have ventured here out of curiosity and intrigue, welcome! This is my first time posting purely in this fandom, so bear with me that I am not aware of the etiquette, if any, that is expected here. I am a great fan of Cassandra Clare's works - who is coincidentally a former fanfic writer herself - and I am currently involved in writing a TID/Thunderbirds crossover fic with a writer from my mainstream fandom under the name **_**Jae & Elle**_**. The link is on my profile for this penname, if you wish to look. In a way, sections of coming parts of that story are the inspiration for this piece, but it is, to say frankly, too far advanced for that 'universe', and so has been posted under my own name instead. **

**There are a few spoilers in this story, unfortunately, both for Clare's **_**The Infernal Devices **_**and the entirety of **_**The Mortal Instruments **_**series, so should you not wish to ruin things for yourself if you are reading them, or intend to in the future, I urge you to turn back now.**

**For the sake of copyright, etc., the quote that is included first in this piece comes from page 326-327 of **_**Clockwork Princess**_**, as does the partial quote 'I will meet you there...', from page 246. I have also taken liberties with certain specific dates, as Clare has never actually confirmed anything definitive.**__**Furthermore, though it perhaps may be considered redundant in light of that last sentence, I do not lay claim to any of Cassandra Clare's works, this is only for my own pleasure and entertainment, and hopefully yours too, if you continue to read. My thanks for even considering doing so.**

The cold air whistled beneath the hood of the man's cloak, a fringe of damp raven hair blown back from his face, dark eyes downcast and fixed on the writing in front of him, standing on the damp, but hard-packed dirt floor. Slender, pale fingers slid along the smooth stone of the mausoleum pillar, tracing words that were etched in silver. Oh, how he wished he could have come here before now. Seventy years since his _parabatai_ had died, but he had never even been able to say a proper goodbye. True, he _had_ seen him off in a fashion; playing for him as he took his final breaths, but he had not been able to mourn properly.

The fog and rain were heavy in the atmosphere, sweeping through the arches of the opened Herondale tombs with a chilly grace, but to him, it felt like he was connecting with the warm memories; reminiscient of another time and a very different place. For so many long years, he had stood watching the time pass as though from behind a veil of glass, a part, and yet not, of the advances of the world; life and death and joy and sorrow, all muted and smothered, unattainable to him. So close, and yet so agonisingly out of reach. Today, the weather alone was bringing back memories of over a hundred years gone. In particular, a trip to the mists of Yorkshire; a tall, black-haired boy, who was much more than a brother, and a serious, brown-haired girl that had been - in a many thousand ways - more than just a friend, searching for the answers to something perilous and mysterious. But right now, his thoughts were for the boy - all messy curls and sharp tongue, insightful, kind and genuine, even to the end.

Now that the ritual had been reversed, he bore the full score of what he would have felt had he not been a Silent Brother when the black-haired boy - by then a white-haired, tired man - had passed away.

He felt like he had lost a part of his soul - in a way, he had, joined as they had been - and it added to the confusing, jumbled, catastrophic crush of emotions that had been thrown upon him when the Heavenly Fire had burned away the influence of the Yin Fen and had begun the stripping of the enchantments of the Silent Brothers; worn for so long. Even now, he still felt the burn of those blessed, agonising flames - white-hot, searing and unbearable, but oddly comforting and soft, simultaneously - curling though his veins. They had brought him back, healed him and saved him, and he would endure them again if he had to; a million times over, because through his endurance of what had come before, he had been made stronger. His trials _had_ let him experience things, even as much as it had taken so many others from him, so terribly and so cruelly.

His thoughts filled with the memories of one hundred and thirty years of existence, both beautiful and bittersweet, he placed two fingers to his lips and pressed them to the stone of the pillar, just above the first line of beautiful, scrolled writing, tears springing to his gold-flecked brown eyes as they took in the words, just one more time.

_William Owen Herondale_

_13 May 1861 - 14 June 1937_

_Brother, Parabatai, Husband, Father_

_'Pulvis et umbra sumus'_

"If we are born again, I will meet you in another life, and if there is a river, you will wait on the shores for me to come to you, so that we can cross together." More words, though hoarse, were spoken aloud now, said once before, over a hundred years ago. He thought they were fitting. He recalled that day with crystal clarity; his last as a mortal man, at least until these past few had come. He knew that Will would appreciate them; after all, it was he who had said them. He had heard them in his mind, right as he had undertaken the first runes of the Brotherhood. In the years since, they had rung through his mind like a crystalline echo, imprinted indelibly on what felt like his very being, frozen in time, as he had been, for all this time. His _parabatai_ had always been appreciative of words; in whichever or whatever form they chose to materialise, and to know that they had been in love, grief, pain and passion, it was right that he would echo them back to Will in this way. His palm pressed to the cold stone, he paused softly, his lower lip pulled between his teeth, and he tugged the hood back from his face, tears sliding silently down his cheeks as more memories bubbled upwards, lost to him, until now. "I will meet you then, William." He told the air.

Standing abruptly and turning away, he tipped his head back, taking in the chilly rain as it angled in on his face, and he found himself imagining with a wry smile what his _parabatai_ would likely be saying if he could see him now. It would probably be along the lines of something that would make him want to roll his eyes and smack the younger man in the head, but that was just Will, and that alone was an explanation in itself.

Moving forwards purposefully, his mind full of memories, he knew where he was going now; to meet someone that he hadn't as himself in so many long years, finally taking back the name that had been his by birth. It was one that he knew Will and Tessa had never been able to cease calling him, and as he thought of that, it warmed him immeasurably.

Though unsure and rattled, but simultaneously reassured and calm, for the first time since he had first said goodbye to his mortal life, James Carstairs smiled.


End file.
